June 2010 is approaching like a runaway train. It’s hard to believe that in less than a week we’ll be on our way to New Haven. My class, 1955, will be celebrating our 55th reunion.

Two nights ago, I was talking with a roommate about the reunion. We got on the subject of teachers and teaching. Out of the blue, he asked me to name the three best teachers I had ever had. The first reaction to a question like that is usually the most telling.

My parents came immediately to mind. I realized that was not the answer he was looking for. Two names jumped out at me and I explained that they both were part of my Andover experience.

Bill Brown was my first year English teacher in 1948. He taught me the difference between seeing and observing and how to transcribe succinctly, with clarity, the details of what I observed.

Steve Sorota was our football coach. The knowledge of his subject and his ability to teach every facet of the game with a quiet enthusiasm was infectious. He brought his players to their highest levels of ability, and he instilled in each of us a love of the game and a respect for the sportsmanship and teamwork that is such a part of football and competing in the game of life beyond the playing field.

I was fortunate enough to experience many great teachers and professors at Yale, but none had the lasting effect that Bill Brown and Steve Sorota produced.

Suddenly my mind focused on Frank McCourt, not because I had read ”Teacher Man,” but because of my recent five-year experience at the Southampton Writer’s Conference, twelve days of living in a dorm, sliding into a desk seat designed for an eighth grader and trying to grasp a routine that was almost foreign to me when I was last an undergraduate in 1955 — study, assignments, punctuality and attention in class!

Five 2 ½ hour seminars spaced every other late morning, with the teacher in your chosen discipline, nightly panels and speakers like Thomas Wolfe, Joyce Carol Oates, Amy Tan and Alan Alda, and a faculty including Frank McCourt, Roger Rosenblatt, Billy Collins, Matt Klamm, E.L. Doctorow, Christopher Durang, Jules Feiffer, Melissa Bank and Meg Wolitzer. An abundance of social gatherings on campus and at various locals pubs rounded out the bill of fare.

One hundred plus eager writers, some published, some rookies like me, all eager to learn and none more nervous than me. Thanks to the nagging and pushing of our daughter Jennifer, no slouch in the game of writing herself, I was dragged kicking and screaming the first year. Totally in awe of the talent arrayed at the writers conference, I soon became assimilated thanks to my first instructor, Roger Rosenblatt, the brilliant essayist author and playwright. The second year, Matt Klam led a class of fifteen through his intense course in creative non-fiction and added to my knowledge and further fueled the enthusiasm for my new undertaking.

But nothing could have prepared me for the following year. I signed up for Memoir with Frank McCourt. Two years earlier Ann Bancroft and Alan Alda had taken Frank’s course and were part of the student experience.

Fifteen of us arrived early for the first of five unforgettable sessions, better characterized as productions. Frank was already in the classroom, scribbling on the blackboard and paying no attention to the nervous group of students beginning to take their seats in the shrunken desks behind him. He was sporting a pea green Izod sports shirt, white dockers and a white hat designed to protect him from the sun plus a goodly area around him.

Suddenly he turned, and took a moment to scan the class now seated. You could have heard a pin drop. He announced with an enthusiastic burst of pride, “It’s a great day for the Irish! Padraig Harrington has just won the British Open.”

The first session was confusing and impossible for me to take notes. Anecdotes about Limerick, poverty, his “miserable” childhood, his mother, his brothers ,“The English,” famous Irish writers, poets and playwrights, occasional political rants, hilarious observations on contemporary life, his teaching experience, the human race – occasionally laced with irreverent invective, and usually punctuated with a pixyish grin to make a point – this was all crammed into the first session. It left me wondering where the course was headed.

Halfway through the second session, it dawned on me that the stories and the way he told them were far from random. Each was illustrative of a point he was making about writing a memoir and wringing your deepest feelings out of you. Once I got the hang of it, the total experience sank in and had a profound effect on my determination to get better and carry on with my newfound pleasure.

Frank was generous with his time and individual critique. His notes on my writing are a treasure. The second year, we each received an assignment by mail, to be handed in on arrival: Write in the voice of either Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed or Moses on the state of the world today, around 1000 words and bring 17 copies!

Attached is my paper: “ALMIGHTY GOD, GEE- ZUS”

Frank gave me an “A,” a rare rating for me, with the following comment: “Good, George — Lively, Cheeky, Original! Your writing is so youthful, it makes me wonder if you’re 23.”

On other occasions he commented that I had “The Magic Touch” and ”To keep writing even if its on the wall.”

That simple question from my college roommate made me realize how lucky I have been and that learning never stops!

To: Almighty God
From: Your Son, J.C.
Subject: State of the World memo

GEE-ZUS

I heard earth was screwing things up again and decided to check into it. God help us. America’s having another Presidential election and one of the candidates is being talked about as a Savior. That really got my attention. I decided to cancel my Saturday golf date with Hogan, Snead, and Stewart (a new arrival) and descended for a firsthand look.

It seems that in less time than it takes to recite the 23rd Psalm, a talented new Democratic contender has come out of left field via Hawaii, Chicago and Harvard and annihilated a talented field. Hillary Clinton was the last one left standing. Obama’s not much of a bowler, but he disposed of both Hillary and Bill. He knocked them out, like a pro bowler making the 7-10 split. (You remember the Clintons — you had me write St. Peter a note several years back, suggesting that when their time comes, they should be politely directed south.)

The young contender reminds me of Moses and his sermons. He’s some speaker and can really wow a crowd, but critics point out that he’s only been at it in the Senate for 150 days.

He’ll face off against an equally unlikely opponent in November, a feisty, crotchety veteran, who was left for dead this time last year by his opponents. The contest was like a race. The rest of the Republican contenders sailed past him. He finally rounded the first mark and tacked radically, setting a different course, gambling on a wind change. He got it and rejoined them ahead by several lengths, then free-winded across the finish line leaving them in his wake.

This Obama guy should be careful what he wishes for. This Savior thing is no walk in the park. Trust me, I know. People asking favors all day and night: “Please, Jesus, I need to win the lottery!” “Save the dolphins!” “Make my girlfriend say yes.” Enough is enough.

Both of them will have to be at the top of their games. It’s a mess down here. Whoever wins will face a bum economy, gas at $4.00 plus, two wars, chaos in the housing sector and Hannah Montana, Hannah Montana, Hannah Montana!

On top of all that, the media’s gone nuts. Forget about counting on the archangels getting your message out. These days all you see is a sea of well coifed, well rehearsed empty suits clogging the airways and tabloids, too much blond hair, too much calf, too many giggles. The thought of four months more of this is enough to make me take my own name in vain.

I needed to get my mind off things so I took a trip to Barnes and Noble for a double latte.

JEE-ZUS, so many new books, every media personality, every Member of Congress is cashing in on their celebrity. Most of the stuff written recently is about the election. Congress has a 9% approval and even those books are selling.

I’ve never written a book myself. Even the “Four Horsemen,” Matthew, Mark, Luke and John have their books, all included in the best seller of all time. Hell, I taught them everything they know, and I didn’t even get residuals.

Maybe it’s time I write my memoir, there’s so much more going on than this damned election. I could talk about my competition — Buddha, Mohammed and Moses. Talk about pressure, Tim Russert just arrived here. Maybe I can get him to moderate a panel with the four of us. Just think, Buddha, with 1 billion followers; Mohammed with around 1.2 billion and growing; Moses with his great stories, entrusted by God with the Hebrew Laws, climbing Mt. Sinai and coming back with the 10 Commandments and parting the Red Sea (a little show-offy); and me, founder of Christianity, 33% of the world but 0 growth and how about my story with the bread and the fishes.

Tim could really get it going by moderating a debate between the four of us, duking it out on the merits of the Bible versus the Koran, versus the Torah, and versus the Four Noble Truths. Can you imagine his show prep for that one?

He could end the show by asking for our views on the election and the candidates. The voters would really benefit from our observations and depth, wisdom and insights, and our perspective of time. Can you imagine the ratings?

I was upset when I first walked into Barnes and Noble. I had to climb up a flight to the second floor and down a long aisle to find the Bible shelf, another good reason to write my memoir. While I’m at it, religion down here is being minimized and is openly a target in the courts, the media and the schools. You, the Heavenly Father, are even coming under attack. Not a smart move. I know you and your temper – burning bushes, the plague and locusts, etc.

There’s much more to comment on, but I’ll wait till after the election. Between now and then, I’ve got a memoir to write and an episode of Meet the Press to promote. At the very least, observing O’Bama and McCain, an old fashioned Irish donnybrook in the making, should produce some fireworks and comic relief. I’ll watch the results on TV in the 19th hole with Ben, Sam and Payne. Frankly, I can’t wait till its over. AMEN!

George S.K. Rider